


Bomber

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Got My Eye on You [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-03 23:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5311721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A five plus one, giving Lestrade's POV on the events of the Great Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Greg was a heavy sleeper. His wife, Louise, was not. This was a considerable inconvenience for a DI in charge of one of the Met's twenty three Murder Investigation Teams, simply because murders happen most often in unsocial hours. So, when the phone went in the middle of the night, nine times out of ten, she was the one who eventually found his mobile and answered the call. It didn't endear him to her. "I have to wor, too, Greg- but, unlike you, once I've been woken up, I find it hard to get back to sleep. So, your work ends up screwing up my work. Have you noticed that it never seems to work the other way around?"

This time when she shook him awake, he blearily said "What's up?" She just thrust the phone into his hand and stalked off to the bathroom, muttering.

He managed a sleep slurred "Lestrade."

The voice on the other end identified himself as Police Sergeant Richards, from CTC. He'd been asked by an officer calling it in on an airwave radio to give Lestrade a call, regarding a civilian who was being treated for cuts from flying glass. It took Lestrade's fuddled brain a moment to connect the three pieces of crucial detail. _Civilian…. Counter-Terrorism Command….flying glass_ with himself. And then drew the only possible connection.

"A bomb? Sherlock Holmes has been involved in a bombing?!"

"We're not entirely sure if it is a bomb, sir; that's what we are investigating. But, between you and me, if they call this one a gas leak, then I will eat my badge."

By now, adrenaline had woken Greg fully. "Where?" He kicked aside the bed sheets and got up.

"218 Baker Street."

 _Shit- that's directly across the street from Sherlock_. "Is he alright? What's the damage?" Greg tried to keep his anxiety from making him sound unprofessional to a colleague. Greg put the phone on his shoulder and pinned it there between his neck and ear, as he grabbed clothes from the drawer.

"Amazingly lucky, sir- no deaths at all. Shattered windows all down the street. But it happened late, so most people were in bed asleep- and on that row of houses, the bedrooms are in the back. Apparently, this chap was in the front room, and got some glass fragments in the back. But, he's kicking up a fuss with the paramedics who want to take him to hospital. The landlady just told me to call you."

 _Where's John?_  "Did he say where his flatmate is? Is he OK? He's a doctor."

"The landlady said the other tenant had gone out, not due back tonight."

"Tell them I'm on my way."

oOo

Lestrade was a veteran of the IRA's City campaign- when bombs went off at St Mary Axe, then Bishopsgate, and then in Canary Wharf. He'd been around as a teenager when the Wimpy Bar on Oxford Street went up, too. But the IRA wanted to make a loud bang, without necessarily killing people. In 2007, the 7/7 bombings had shown him just what could happen when civilians were targeted. But, as a Yard DI on Homicide, his involvement had been tangential, and no one he knew personally had been caught up in the horrors of that day in July.

So nothing prepared him for being one of the first on scene at Baker Street. SO15 had taken charge of the area, and the Counter Terrorism Command was out in force. He couldn't get within a thousand meters of the place without having to get out of his car and show a warrant card. As he walked closer to Baker Street, he watched a steady flow of civilians going in the opposite direction as they were escorted from their houses. A constable told him that all but those injured were being moved to the St Cyprian Church hall up at the top of Baker Street until the area could be judged safe for return. He kept going and turned the corner onto Baker Street.

For a split second, he was just so shocked that he ground to a halt. In the emergency lights that had been set up all down the street, he could see that the entire façade of number 218 had been blown out; bricks and rubble littered the road. The front of Speedy's Café had been smashed in, like a giant fist had plunged straight through the plate glass windows. 221b's windows were gaping black holes, as were most of the windows up and down the street. Fire engines were parked at either end of the road and firemen were putting out the blaze that still flared on 218's ground floor.

At the far end, beyond the fire truck he could see at least half a dozen ambulances, and he realised that if Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were still there, that's where they would be.

He saw Mrs Hudson first. She was standing on the pavement, wearing an overcoat and a scarf, and clutching an orange blanket around her shoulders. He came up to her and put a comforting arm around her.

"Mrs Hudson, are you alright? Your message got through to me."

She turned and Greg could see that she'd been crying, but she brightened when she realised who it was. "Oh, Detective Inspector, I am so glad you are here. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He won't go to the hospital; he's just being so stubborn."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. The ambulance crew checked me over; I was in my bedroom in the back. The police want me to go up with the others to the church hall, but I won't leave him."

"Where?" Lestrade looked around. She pointed at the third ambulance along. He looked back at her and then grabbed the arm of a passing constable. "Officer, you are going to take Mrs Hudson to St Cytprian Hall right now." He looked at her with a reassuring smile before she could protest. "I'll look after him, Mrs Hudson; you need to go get warm. If anything happens, I will get word to you, OK?"

She hesitated, but the constable took her arm and said, "Let's go, madam. You're just in the way here, and we can't be sure that there won't be another explosion." Lestrade just strode off to the third ambulance.

He heard Sherlock before he saw him, and that raised a smirk. "Get off of me, you idiot. I am not in need of your assistance. Go practice your ghastly first aid skills on someone who actually needs you."

He came around the back of the ambulance to see Sherlock sitting on the back bumper of the vehicle. Despite the cold night, he was dressed only in his pyjamas and blue dressing gown, and he had one bare foot on the ground. He was trying to remove what Lestrade guessed would be a piece of glass from the ball of the other bare foot.

"Giving the emergency services your usual grief, Sherlock?"

Greg frowned when the tall brunet did not respond; in fact, he gave no indication that he even knew that Lestrade was standing there. There was a paramedic in the back of the ambulance who heard him, however, who gestured towards his ear. "He can't hear very well yet- too near the blast radius." He shot a rather long suffering look at the DI. "I hope you know him and can talk sense into him. That fellow over there had no luck." He pointed to a man in a suit standing about ten feet away watching him. Lestrade guessed it might be one of Mycroft's minions, or maybe an SO6 plainclothes officer. Sherlock was oblivious to the conversation, focussing on using a pair of tweezers to extract another piece of glass from his foot.

Greg started to reach for the brunet's shoulder, but hesitated. He knew Sherlock loathed being touched, but he was concentrating so hard on his own foot, that he wasn't seeing the DI. So Greg sat on the bumper next to him. The movement and the shift of weight on the ambulance made Sherlock look up. "Evening, Detective Inspector, not really your division, this. Why are you here?" It was said in a louder than normal baritone.

Lestrade pitched his reply at somewhere below a shout, but loud enough he hoped to get through. "I'm here because you're being an idiot, and they think I can convince you to go to the hospital to get checked out."

Sherlock looked back down at his foot which was bleeding now. He gestured to the paramedic in the back of the ambulance. "Now you can make yourself useful. I could do with that antiseptic and a proper bandage." The paramedic started to apply the antiseptic, but Sherlock just snatched the wipe from his hand and shoo'ed him away. "Look, but don't touch." The medic just rolled his eyes, and then looked pointedly at the DI. He gestured to the orange blanket that was around Sherlock's shoulders. Lestrade stood up and walked around to take a look. There was blood seeping through, from the consulting detective's back.

As Sherlock put the finishing touches on the bandage around his foot, he said to Greg. "Need a finger." The silver haired man obliged, putting his index finger on the crossing gauze strands, which Sherlock then tied off.

"Sherlock, look at me." He said it loud enough to get his attention, and then looked at the pair of grey green eyes that lifted to meet his. "Your back is bleeding; there's likely to be glass in there, and  _you_  can't reach it. Where's John?"

The brunet frowned and looked back down at his foot. "Out."

"Yeah, I got that from Mrs Hudson." He fished into his own pocket, and switched his phone on. He scrolled down looking for Watson's number.

The baritone voice sounded too loud. "You won't get a signal. CTC blocked all mobile traffic." Lestrade looked sheepish; of course, standard protocol in a terrorist incident.

"Tell me where John is and I'll get a constable to pick him up."

Sherlock shook his head." No, I don't need him."

There was something a bit abrupt in that statement which made Greg whether the two flatmates had been quarrelling about something. With Sherlock, it was likely. John's patience wasn't inexhaustible. He decided Sherlock was his responsibility. He called the suited man over, and then said quietly, "Go upstairs into 221b and collect some warm clothes, shoes, his coat. Oh, and don't forget the blue scarf."

Sherlock was watching but having difficulties understanding what was said. He frowned as the agent strode away, at last glad to have something useful to do. "He's an idiot. I told him to piss off twenty minutes ago, but he's too scared of my brother to do anything but lurk."

Lestrade leaned a little closer and spoke louder, "Where is Mycroft? I'd have thought this would be right up his street."

Sherlock just shook his head. "He's _never_ here when he's really needed, just gets in the way when he's not. According to his PA, he's in Rome and won't be back until tomorrow morning. He could just stay there forever, for all I care."

Greg felt the anger that was just there under the surface. The situation was getting to Sherlock. "Do you think this is personal?"

"What do you think?" The brunet looked at him for the first time tonight, those penetrating grey green eyes telling Lestrade what he really didn't want to hear. The DI sighed. "Then best we get you to a place of safety, Sherlock. I can't get a car anywhere near here; you'll have to get out of here by ambulance. We've got to get that glass out of your back, and then you'll come home with me." Sherlock started to protest, but Greg cut him off. He saw something glinting in the unruly hair, reached over and pulled out a sliver of glass. "Stop it. You can't go back to the flat until they've declared the area clear. I'll get Mycroft's man to sort out some boarding for the windows. If you're with me, then when the area is cleared, I'll be told and I can bring you back here. So, no arguments."

When the agent reappeared with his clothes, Lestrade told him to sort out the windows and secure the flat, guarding it from intruders until he could be relieved in the morning. The brunet reached for the comfort of his Belstaff coat, but Lestrade intercepted it. "You don't want to get blood on it, do you?"

Sherlock looked back at the blown out windows of Baker Street, with something of a forlorn look. Then quietly, "Will you come with me in the ambulance?"

Greg could only guess what that admission of his need for company had cost Sherlock. He nodded, then looked up to see a relieved paramedic's smile. He clambered into the ambulance behind the injured man, and they left for UCL Hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg was feeling a little worse for wear after spending half the night at UCL hospital's A&E. Once Sherlock's back had been seen to, four slivers of glass removed, bandages applied and then officially discharged, the DI took him home to his flat in Seven Sisters and put him to bed on the sofa. Louise had just sighed, after being woken twice on the same night. "Don't let him bleed on the sofa, Greg; that's all I ask" she said in a resigned tone, and turned over.

The next morning she left before 7am without a word or even a backward glance at the pile of blankets on the sofa that presumably contained one sleeping consulting detective. Even before he headed for the bathroom for a shave and shower, Greg had checked in with CTC. The area was still being cleared of rubble, but no other devices had been found. The Forensic teams were crawling all over 218, but 221 was OK for a return, based on a check conducted by "another agency that must remain nameless", according to his CTC contact.

As they drove to Baker Street at eight o'clock, he issued Sherlock with firm instructions. "Do NOT cross the street. Do NOT interfere with the forensic examination of the premises. I've been told that if you do, you will be arrested and carted off to detention. Let them do their jobs without interference, please."

Lucky for him, as the car pulled up to the police tape at the end of Baker Street, he spotted another black government car parked. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Greg just said in a warning tone, "Looks like the first flight from Rome got in early. Play nicely with your brother, Sherlock; I know he can be a pain, but really, you don't want to pick a fight now."

And he went back to work, hoping that the BBC news report of the gas leak explosion would prove to be just that.

oOo

Of course, it was too much to ask. CTC contacted him before 10am to say that a package was on its way to him. It had been found inside a high grade military fire safe in 218- an undamaged envelope addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

 _Shit. This is…different._  In all the years of working with Sherlock, it had been the consulting detective who had gone after the criminals, not the other way around. While suspects and even convicted criminals had often threatened retribution for their apprehension, it had never led to much- a couple of beatings, a lot of posturing. But, to date, no one had tried to blow him up.

When Lestrade explained to the CTC officer that the intended recipient was across the street from where the envelope had been found, he got a lecture. As per instructions from "another agency" received more than four months ago, "all Met contact with said individual now had to be conducted through DI Lestrade", so  _he_ was being sent the package. It arrived with a note to say that it had been X rayed and examined to ensure it did not contain anything dangerous, and that no fingerprints or other trace had been found either- oh, and if it contained anything even vaguely relating to terrorist activity to tell them. Intimidated, he made the call to Sherlock.

He was relieved to see that John was with Sherlock when the consulting detective showed up.  _Something tells me that Sherlock is going to need all the friends he's got on this one._

Greg was puzzled when the envelope yielded a disturbingly familiar pink phone, with a strange recorded message and an attached photo. More worrying, Sherlock deduced that all three things combined meant they were being warned that there would be other bombs.

Within twenty minutes, the trio had made their way back to Baker Street and were now standing in the basement flat of 221. Greg watched Sherlock focus on a pair of trainers- which were sitting on an otherwise mouldy and damp living room floor.

"He's a bomber, remember." John warned Sherlock as he crouched down and started to reach for the shoes. After a few moments of his silent examination without touching anything, all three men jumped slightly when the shrill sound of a mobile phone was heard. Sherlock stood and pulled the pink phone from his pocket.

"Hello?" Sherlock put the phone on speaker, so John and Greg could hear a woman's voice draw in a shaky breath and then say tearfully, "H-hello…sexy." Whatever Lestrade was expecting, the incongruity of the words and the tearful tone chilled him right to the core.

Sherlock's soft response, "The curtain rises," did nothing to dispel Greg’s concern. John phrased the question that they obviously both had when he asked "what?"

Sherlock's "Nothing" didn't satisfy either of the other two men. John looked worried; Greg could only think that something crucial was being kept from him; something that he wouldn't like. His unease was not decreased when the brunet just said, "I've been expecting this for some time". Then came the chilling statement from the woman on the phone; Sherlock had twelve hours to solve the puzzle or the caller, who was using the woman to voice his demands, would be "so naughty." Then the phone went dead.

Sherlock swept up the shoes, and announced he was off to Barts to use the lab. Lestrade protested- "Sherlock, that's evidence!"

"Yes- of kidnapping, but at the rate your Forensic service works, it will be evidence for yet another bombing. Leave this one to me, Lestrade. You can't possibly get this done in time." The two men locked eyes for a moment, then the brunet just walked past him to the door.

Greg couldn't resist. "What makes  _you_  think you can?"

That stopped Sherlock long enough for him to lean back into the room. Through gritted teeth, "didn't you  _listen_? This is a  _puzzle_ \- a challenge directed at  _me_. You asked last night if I took that explosion personally- well, you have your answer. Now, time is ticking on, so excuse me, but you can see yourself out."

John followed, casting an apologetic look to the DI as he went past.

"John, get him to text me when you know anything; better yet, could you do it, please? More likely to be kept up to date that way."

A "yes" floated down the stairs, leaving Lestrade to give one last look around the room, before he too made his way up the stairs. He had a bad feeling about this.

oOo

The DI went back to New Scotland Yard, and fretted. He had no leads to speak of, so he called CTC back and demanded that they hand over the fire safe that had survived the bomb. Maybe that would lead to a clue as to who had placed it and the bomb in the house. One had to assume that the two events were linked.  _Hell of a way to get Sherlock's attention. Mind you, it worked. If I wanted to intrigue him, this is the one way to do it._  He worried about whoever had been forced to make the call on behalf of the bomber- what form of duress was being applied? She sounded so frightened and distressed.

He texted John.

**11.45am Any ideas? Can that call be traced?**

**11.52am He's working on the shoes. And- no, he says the caller is too smart to be traceable.**

**11.53am Does he know who the bomber is?**

**11.56am Maybe, but he sure the hell isn't telling me.**

Two hours later, Anderson reported to Lestrade that the fire safe was a standard military issue, used in Afghanistan on a regular basis, and in every Army barracks in the country, too. The fire had obliterated any trace, any fingerprints, anything other than soot. Chance of locating the bomber from that was nil.

In the meantime, life in the Yard went on as usual. There were other investigations on-going, and he got reports from the team as they worked on their existing cases. Sherlock had been right last night, this was not his division. Bombers were treated as counter-terrorist threats first. They'd only given him the safe because of the connection with Sherlock. Bombs were just not in the DI's remit. But that didn't stop him from worrying about it.

Two and a half hours after John's last text, Lestrade rang his CTC contact and asked what the initial view was on the nature of the bomb. "That's the queer thing, Detective Inspector. On the one hand, the initial fire service analysis indicated gas leak. Now, however, we've changed our view. Yes, gas was involved- the bomber just left a gas tap open in the fireplace. But, we did eventually find what set it off. It's a tiny bit of straight, old fashioned semtex. Then we found a fragment of detonator wire that is also IRA standard issue. Mind you, the boys haven't seen one of these in donkeys' years. Not one of the provos; in fact, even the IRA moved on from this stuff before the decommissioning finished in 2005. Suggests someone had access to old supplies in Northern Ireland and decided to get clever. "

Lestrade drew in a shaky breath. "I don't suppose that fact is going to become common knowledge?"

There was a knowing chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Not on your life, matey. We've got bigger fish to fry with the Radical Islamicists these days."

Four hours after John's last text, Lestrade got another one.

**16.04pm Need everything you've got on file on schoolboy Carl Powers, 1989, South London, death by drowning; 'tragic accident'.**

**16.05pm Who is Carl Powers?**

**16.06pm Owned the trainers**

_How the hell did Sherlock figure THAT out? And what does it mean?_ Greg sent the file via PC on a motorbike. But not before reading it and spotting the original station report, included a note about a fourteen year old boy coming in and demanding that they investigate the dead boy's 'missing shoes'.  _How did I know that the name of that boy would be Sherlock Holmes?_ That fact cranked up Greg's anxiety levels another five notches. If the bomber knew something about Sherlock that he didn't, then the threat was somehow magnified.

At six o'clock, Lestrade was getting positively antsy. Four and a half hours to go until the bomber's deadline. He texted John.

**18.02pm Any news?**

There was no reply, not for more than a half hour. By then Lestrade was pacing, and wondering whether to go to Barts or to Baker Street to see what the hell was happening.

**18.50pm I was out. Now back at Baker Street. He's thinking.**

To hell with that, Lestrade puffed out his cheeks, and made a decision. He called Louise to tell her he wouldn't be home for dinner, in fact, not to wait up, as it might be a long one. There was a resigned sigh at the other end. "Just be quiet when you come in, will you? I can't face two nights in a row of interrupted sleep."

He was half way to Baker Street when his phone chirped an incoming text alert.

**7.35pm Cracked it! Go find the hostage- bomber's set her free: she's in a Tesco car park in Lostwithiel, Cornwall. Tell the police to be careful- he thinks she's wired to a bomb!**

For a split second, Lestrade looked at the message in disbelief. Then police training kicked in and he shouted at his driver to turn around and head back to the Yard, before dialling the office and asking for the number of the Cornish Police force HQ.


	3. Chapter 3

Greg's night was long and tedious. What kept him going was caffeine, adrenaline and a growing anxiety about just what the hell Sherlock had gotten himself into this time. Liaison with a police force as far away from London as Cornwall always had its challenging aspects, such as trying to explain the bombing scenario to a DI more used to domestic disputes and the odd burglary against a holidaymaker's empty second property. In the end, army staff from Plymouth had to cross the Tamar Bridge into Cornwall to ensure that the woman in the Tesco car park in Lostwithiel could be safely removed from the jacket of semtex she was wearing. That took half the night, and by the time it was done and the woman safely returned to her family, Lestrade decided it was easier just to stay at the Yard, rather than wake Louise up, yet again.

He texted John and Sherlock at 8am and asked them to come to the Yard for a debrief.

Now facing the two of them, Greg was in no mood to waste time on pleasantries. As soon as they got in his office, he let loose. "I need an explanation, Sherlock. Why and how would a bomber know about a kid murdered twenty three years ago, especially a case where  _you_  were involved?"

"I don't know how and I don't know why. Perhaps we should concentrate on questions we can answer." Sherlock's face as impassive. He then asked what the night's investigations had revealed about the woman's abduction and how she had been set up as a hostage.

John was seated opposite Greg, and listened intently to the DI's description of how the woman had been taken hostage by two masked men, who had forced her to drive to the car park, and then dressed her in "enough explosives to take down a house." During this description, Sherlock had stood with his back turned, gazing out of the glass window that separated his office from the team room. Greg carried on with his description that the hostage was told to "phone you. She had to read out from this pager..." He slid it across the desk to John, who picked it up to look at it.

The tall brunet just finished his sentence for him, "…and if she deviated by one word, the sniper would set her off."

John then completed the thought. "..or if you hadn't solved the case."

Greg frowned. "No, semtex can't be set off that way. The kit is being examined by the army counter-terrorism experts now, but their initial view is that the sniper was there to convince the woman that she was being watched, and that if she tried to get out of the jacket, he'd detonate it. It's a standard mobile phone detonator connection, apparently- and the phone was probably in the hands of the sniper- a belt and braces approach, according to the army."

Sherlock had moved back to the window into the office. "Oh…elegant."

That made John's head snap around; "Elegant?" His disbelief at the inappropriateness of the word was made abundantly clear.

Lestrade was more used to Sherlock's odd appreciation of criminal sophistication; he'd been on the receiving end of such comments on a number of occasions. Most criminals invoked sarcastic criticism about their unintelligent stupidity, but every once in a while, something would attract Sherlock's aesthetic appreciation.

That said, applying it to something like this irritated the DI. If the threat to an innocent hostage was not enough to get him wound up tight, he was also fuming about not knowing who was behind this. He guessed that Sherlock probably did know, but was keeping that knowledge to himself. His frustration boiled over, "But, what was the point. Why would anyone  _do_  this?"

If Lestrade was looking for reassurance, Sherlock's reply certainly did not qualify. "Oh, I can't be the only person in the world that gets bored." The DI's eyes widened and he was about to ask what the hell that meant, when the pink phone beeped a message alert. Both he and John watched Sherlock activate the phone and hit the speaker key: "You have one new message."

The phone then played the familiar Greenwich pips, but this time there were only three short and one long pip, which John commented on, and Sherlock confirmed. "First test passed, it would seem. Here's the second."

He turned and showed the phone to the others- a photo close-up of a car with the driver door open and the number plate clearly visible. As John and Greg took a closer look, Sherlock commented "It's abandoned, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll see if it's been reported." Greg picked up his phone to get onto the Met's connection with DVLA to get the car's owner identified by the license plate number.

Then Sally popped her head in the office door, to say that there was someone for Sherlock on the phone outside- it was where calls to Lestrade would be diverted if his line was engaged. Sherlock left the office and picked up the phone.

Lestrade was put on hold, while the officer chased down the details on the database. He watched as John got up to join Sherlock outside. Something was going on, he could tell by the look on John's face. Then the officer started speaking, and Lestrade noted down some details on a scrap of paper. He then immediately dialled the Southwark police station where the car had been reported as being abandoned. After taking note of the details, he swept out and announced, "Right; found it; let's go."

There was an atmosphere in the car. Lestrade was in the left side of the passenger seat, John was in the middle looking at Sherlock with accusation in his eyes, but the consulting detective wouldn't meet his glance, preferring instead to look out the window. Sally was in the front seat. It wasn't until they were halfway across Blackfriars Bridge that Sherlock spoke again. "That call I took in your office was from the bomber, speaking again through a hostage. This one's a young man. He's outside somewhere, sounds like a city centre. I could hear cars, buses, pedestrians."

Lestrade just sat forward, turned his head and nailed Sherlock with a look. "That means lots of civilians at risk, not just the hostage."

Sherlock nodded. "I've been given eight hours to solve this one."

John's face betrayed the dismay that Greg felt. The DI lost it, and just growled, "What the hell is going on, Sherlock.  _Who_  is playing such deadly games?"

There was no answer.

oOo

As they drove into the crime scene, Sally added fuel to Greg's irritation. "Given the Freak's timetable, it's a good thing that the Southwark station team was already on site at the car. They found it late yesterday, abandoned on a construction site. They have been processing the car ever since, because they found blood. I hope they checked it for booby traps."

They passed a woman police officer interviewing another woman, as the four of them approached the car. Lestrade consulted his notes, taken down when he was on the phone. "The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford; banker of some kind, City Boy, paid in cash."

Greg could hear Sally and John talking in the background; sounded like she was giving John a hard time about "hanging around" Sherlock.  _She never gives up; never been willing to see the value of having his help._  Having Sherlock involved in a case always made her uncomfortable.

When Sherlock investigated the inside of the car with Lestrade looking over his shoulder, they both spotted the blood in the space between the two front seats. The DI grimaced at the quantity. "Before you ask, yes, it's Monkford's blood. The DNA checks out." The Forensic investigator had taken a sample last night, and the suspect's wife supplied some material to corroborate the findings.

"No body."

Sally was the one to reply. "Not yet." She crossed her arms and glowered. But Sherlock didn't even look at her. He just said to Lestrade, "Get a sample sent to the lab" and strode away. The DI just looked at Donovan, making sure she understood that he expected her to comply. She stomped off in exasperation to get an evidence kit. He decided to hang about the car just to make sure that the DS did take the sample. She'd been known in the past to wilfully misunderstand something that the consulting detective needed. He opened the back door to see if there were any clues there. When he moved onto the boot, he glanced over to see that Sherlock was talking to the woman who had been with the police constable earlier. He couldn't see his face, just that of the woman.

"Donovan, who's that over there, talking to Holmes?"

Sally peered through the car windows; she was on her knees scraping a sample of dried blood into an evidence tube. "The PC said it's Monkford's wife."

The next time Lestrade looked around, it was to see Sherlock and John striding away from the crime scene. He sighed as he watched them disappear.  _Side-lined, again._ The Di's frustration boiled over yet again.

**12.13pm Where are you? What's going on? You HAVE to keep me informed; this is a police investigation! GL**

There was no reply from Sherlock, so Greg resent the same message to John.

**12\. 27pm On our way to car rental firm, Janus Cars. I'll keep you up to date. JW**

Lestrade gathered more background information from the Southwark team. He spoke to Monkford's wife, who said that her husband had been depressed for some time, seemed he was about to be made redundant at the bank, or at least was afraid that it was coming. He noted the bank, and sent Donovan off to interview his co-workers to see if any insight could be offered. Could Monkford be the person that the bomber was using as his voice this time? Greg was struggling to understand how this could have any connection to the previous "puzzle piece" that the bomber had set. Could there be a link between Monkford and Carl Powers? They might have been contemporaries at school; they'd be more or less the right age. The wife was no help on that score- she knew he'd been to school in South London, but had no idea what the name of the school was. Greg realised that wasn't suspicious; after all, he had no idea the name of Louise's school, just that it had been in Barnet. He organised the move of the car to the police compound for further forensic examination. As the car was loaded onto the truck, he glanced at his watch and grimaced. Half way to the deadline.

His phone chirped, an incoming text alert.

**13.37pm At Bart's Lab now. He's testing that blood sample. JW**

Ten minutes later, another text asked Lestrade whether the car had been moved yet. He agreed to meet them at the police vehicle compound.

First thing Greg said when they were shown in was "Sherlock, you don't go off on your own without telling me what the hell is going on. There are innocent lives at stake. We've only got three hours left."

"How much blood was on that seat, would you say?"

When Greg answered about a pint of so, Sherlock's reply was rapid fire- "Not 'about'.  _Exactly_ a pint. That was their first mistake. The blood's definitely Ian Monkford's, but it's been frozen."

The DI's incredulity was clear. "Frozen?"

"There are clear signs. I think Ian Monkford gave a pint of his blood some time ago and that's what they spread on the seats.

Lestrade took some comfort in the fact that John seemed just as confused as he was. " _Who_  did?"

The consulting detective's smirk as in place as he answered, "Janus cars. The clue's in the name."

An inveterate crossword addict, John knew this one. "The god with two faces."

Sherlock's smirk broadened. "Exactly."

Then he turned to Lestrade and let rip. "They provide a very special service. If you've got any kind of a problem- money troubles, bad marriage, whatever- Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was us to his eyes in some kind of trouble- financial at a guess; he's a banker. Couldn't see a way out. But if he were to vanish, if the car he hired was found abandoned with his blood all over the driver's seat…"

John butted in. "So where is he?"

Sherlock closed the car door. "Colombia."

Whatever Lestrade was expecting, it wasn't a South American country best known for its drug trade. He couldn't keep the incredulous question out of his voice. "Colombia?!"

"Mr Ewert of Janus Cars had a twenty thousand Colombian peso note in his wallet, quite a bit of change, too. He told us he hadn't been abroad recently, but when I asked him about his cars, I could see his tan line clearly. No one wears a shirt on a sunbed. That, plus his arm."

Greg was starting to feel like a bloody parrot, but he couldn't help it as the question popped out, "His arm?!"

Sherlock carried on, "Kept scratching it. Obviously irritating him, and bleeding. Why? Because he'd recently had a booster jab. Hep-B, probably. Difficult to tell at that distance. Conclusion: he'd just come back from settling Ian Monkford into his new life in Colombia. Mrs Monkford cashes in the life insurance and she splits it with Janus Cars."  
_  
_ John beat Greg to the next question, "Mrs Monkford?"

"Oh, yes, she's in on it, too."

Lestrade just looked down at the floor, a look of amazement on his face.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." He turned to John and said, "We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." He strode away, with John by his side, leaving Greg reeling. He watched as Sherlock pump his fist, and the triumphant "I am on  _fire!_ "

That both amazed and scared Greg. Sherlock was  _enjoying_  this far too much. The deadly timetable was pushing his deductive skills to the limit, but he was not horrified by the idea of a bomber setting up these bizarre challenges.  _It's all just a game to him._ Greg was getting increasingly worried about where this might end. But, he didn't have time to think about that now- he had people to arrest.

oOo

An hour later, Greg was on the phone to the Columbian authorities, armed with an arrest warrant for the Monkfords. The owner of Janus Cars was in custody and speaking to Sergeant Donovan, providing details of how it had been done, and where to find them. His mobile then went, and when he pulled it out of his pocket, he read the text:

**5.32pm Pick up the second hostage at Piccadilly Circus. Be careful; he's still wired, but the sniper's gone. SH**

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. It had been one hell of a day, but he picked up the phone and got started on what promised to be an even longer night, cleaning up the mess left behind in Sherlock's wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, the broadcast episode dialogue excerpts are from Ariane DeVere's excellent transcript on LiveJournal. With thanks for the rocket fuel…


	4. Chapter 4

Lestrade was so tired after the Piccadilly area was cleared and the young man brought in for questioning that he let Sergeant Donovan interview him. Just told her to find out everything she could about how he was abducted, and what if anything the youth could tell them about the MO of the bomber. There had to be a link between the two, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure it out. The woman in Cornwall had been so traumatised by the experience that her doctor insisted that the Cornish police delay questioning her. So, Greg hoped that the young man would be more resilient, and therefore more helpful.

He went home, had a shower and sat there like a zombie at the dining table. Louise just served up dinner and looked at him. She shook her head as she put the first bite of mushroom risotto into her mouth. He started shovelling the rice in, but his brain was still trying to come to terms with Sherlock's bomber. How he'd pieced together the Monkfords' disappearing act based on a pint of blood and a rental car firm was just about the most obscure of his deductive exercises in the entire time that Greg had known him. And comfortably within the time limit set by the bomber. Not that the hostage had really appreciated it, he was sure.

"You're just a bundle of fun tonight, aren't you, Greg?" Louise sighed and cleared up the now empty plate in front of her husband. He could hear the sound of washing up in the kitchen. He moved to the sofa and then stared blankly at the screen when she came in and turned on the telly to watch another one of her favourite soap operas. He vaguely heard the northern accents and concluded it must be Coronation Street.

When his mobile went off, he picked it up and went back into the kitchen.

"Hello, Guv. Thought you'd like to know the results of the interview. The hostage was one Charlie Johnson – a football fan down in London for the day, from his home in Beaconsfield. He'd come to see the Chelsea Match, but never made it there. Took a taxi from Paddington, thinks he fell asleep and the next thing he knew he was in the back of the taxi with three masked men. He woke up already dressed in the bomb jacket. Bomb squad say it's an exact match to the one worn by the Cornish woman- that arrived this morning and was taken apart at the seams, so they had one to compare Johnson's with. They gave him a pay-as-you-go phone and a pager, told him what he was going to have to do to stay alive, and then dropped him at Piccadilly Circus. He was told to make the call when the pager gave him instructions, and that a sniper would be watching his every move from one of the buildings. Told him to watch the red dot on his chest if he even thought of trying to contact anyone or speak to someone passing by. You know the rest."

She took a breath. "If you want my opinion, sir, I don't think he was specially selected- just happened to be the person who took that taxi from the rank at the train station. It could have been anyone."

Greg sighed. "Any info on his kidnappers? What about the cab driver? Do you think he could identify him?"

"He didn't even look at the driver before he got in the cab- I mean, who the hell does? He said he thought the guy was white, middle aged, wore a flat cap, spoke with a London accent- in other words like hundreds of taxi drivers. And there is no way to know whether he was the real thing. No taxi licence number, no number plate, no nothing. And the three men? That's even worse- dressed all in black, with balaclava masks. All white, all "big and scary" – Charlie's words, not mine."

She carried on. "No joy with the parka they made him wear- it's well worn- probably a jumble sale or thrift store item, a line discontinued years ago. The pager is also a standard issue NHS job, used in just about every hospital in the country. Someone clever re-programmed the pager number, so it's off the grid, and the only number calling it was traced to another burn phone."

She sighed. "Someone is very, very good at this, sir. No forensics at all. Drew a sample of the hostage's blood to see if the drug they used is going to show up, but Charlie doesn't remember a thing- no one sticking him with a needle, or drinking anything in the taxi. He says he has a vague recollection of being driven out of Paddington Station and heading down to Bayswater Road, and then nothing."

Lestrade's reply was succinct. "Damn." A deep breath, then "OK, Donovan, you've done the best we can with the poor hostage. Set him loose, and go home to get some rest yourself. Something tells me this is far from over."

"Sir? This is all to do with the Freak, isn't it? Someone's spinning out these cases just to watch him do his thing. Do you want me to bring Holmes in for questioning?"

He thought about it. What Sally was saying was logical, if brutal. Greg had the feeling that Sherlock knew more than he was letting others know. On the other hand, the idea that he was somehow  _involved_  in the bombing and the subsequent two cases was ridiculous.  _Oh, Sherlock ,PLEASE don't be a prat about this; I really need you to be honest with me._  He felt his tension headache growing in ferocity by the minute.

"Guv- taking Holmes into…I don't know, protective custody or something…might make the bomber stop his campaign. Give us a chance to slow things up and get ahead of him somehow."

The DI just didn't buy it. "Give it a rest, Donovan. He's not the enemy here. Someone is targeting him; yeah, I get that. But, he hasn't been directly threatened, and somehow I don't see him volunteering to keep a low profile, do you?"

"Maybe, sir, but the hostages take a different view. They want to know why they were plucked out at random to be terrorised, and so far the only reason we can give them is because they were being used to taunt Sherlock Holmes. It's not good, sir; if it happens again, and he screws up, then we're going to have a dead body, an innocent civilian killed, just because he fancies his chances of solving another case. It stinks, sir, and we really should be doing something to put a stop to it."

"Your views are noted, Sergeant. Now go home and get some sleep. I will see you tomorrow morning."

oOo

Lestrade was half way through his second coffee, standing in front of the evidence board in the team room, looking at the photographs of the Carl Powers case and the Monkfords' deception.  _What's the connection? There has to be a connection._  Both cases had to have been selected because they had meaning for Sherlock. The first one certainly did. He'd read the file now; there was no way that a police officer would have given a fourteen year old boy the benefit of the doubt when he turned up at a station demanding that an accidental death be re-opened as a murder enquiry just because a pair of trainers had gone missing. It made Greg remember his own incredulity at a sixteen year old lad's utter certainty about the accidental death of a Ukrainian merchant seaman in a barroom brawl.  _At least then he was involved in the crime scene._  Could there be some aspect of the Monkfords' case that Sherlock wasn't admitting- some personal connection? He'd been investigating the murder of a banker a couple of months ago- that was DI Dimmock's case- a suspected suicide, which Sherlock proved was in fact murder. He left a voice mail message on Dimmock's number: "Need a word about that banker case you did with Holmes. Was there any link to another banker called Ian Monkford?"

Then his mobile phone went. He checked caller ID, and smiled. "Sherlock- your ears must have been burning because I was just thinking about you. I need to talk to you about Ian Monkford."

Sherlock interrupted. "No time for that now, Lestrade.  _He's_  rung again. This time there is something about a woman who died two days ago. I'm off to Barts to look at Connie Prince's body. John tells me she's something in daytime TV. Meet us at the morgue." He sounded like he was about to hang up.

"No, wait!  _SHERLOCK_!"

"What?" He sounded annoyed.

"Is there another hostage involved? Is it the same MO? Come on, gimme; you can't just leave another innocent person out there dangling!?"

There was a very brief moment of silence, then Sherlock replied. "The bomber said, through the hostage, of course, that 'this one is defective'. Turns out she's blind, and she's old- that's for sure. Yorkshire accent. That's all I know- oh, and I have twelve hours."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Nothing relevant to the case, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get started." He hung up, leaving Lestrade looking incredulously at his phone.

He went out into the team room. "Alright, listen up- we've got another one. Start looking for an old woman who's gone missing, blind, with a Yorkshire accent. She's the hostage this time. She might be in Yorkshire, London, or anywhere- no ideas of location yet. And drag out everything you can on the death of Connie Prince- two days ago, find out which team is investigating that and get them in here ASAP to share data."

Sally Donovan was in motion before he could finish speaking. But, she caught his eye and gave him a meaningful look. Then she turned to the team. "Right, and we need to investigate what links there are between this death and Sherlock Holmes. There is a connection- we just don't know it yet."

oOo

Lestrade led the way into the Morgue, reading from a file. "Connie Prince, fifty-four. She had one of those make-over shows in the telly. Did you see it?"

"No."

"Very popular; she was going places."

"Not any more. So- dead two days. According to one her staff, Raoul de Santos, she cut her hand on a rusty nail in the garden. Nasty wound." He bent over the body on the slab to look closely at a wound on webbing between her right thumb and index finger. "Tetanus bacteria enters the bloodstream- goodnight, Vienna."

John was on the other side of the table. "I suppose."

Sherlock's face showed he was thinking it through, and not happy with the diagnosis on the autopsy report. "There is something wrong with this picture….Can't be as simple as it seems, otherwise, the bomber wouldn't be directing us towards it. Something's wrong." He swooped down close to the body, looking through his magnifier.

"John?"

The DI watched the doctor look up from the body at the detective.

"The cut on her hand, it's deep. Would have bled a lot, right?"

"Yeah."

"But the wound's clean-  _very_ clean, and fresh…How long would the bacteria have been incubating inside her?"

Lestrade started leafing through the file for the Coronor's report. The doctor answered first, "Eight, ten days."

Sherlock straightened up and smirked, waiting for the doctor and the Di to put the pieces together. Watson got there first, again. "The cut was made later."

Greg finished the thought, "…after she was dead?"

Sherlock's know-all tone was in full flow, "Must have been. The only question is, how did the tetanus enter the dead woman's system?" He then asked John, "You want to help, right?"

"Of course."

"Connie Prince's background- family, history, everything. Give me data."

John was watching Sherlock. Lestrade got the feeling that the two of them were communicating without speaking; it was always a bit weird to watch them at a crime scene. John was more than just a medical opinion, more than a flatmate, more than a blogger. He seemed to have a catalytic effect on Sherlock's deductive capacity. But, Lestrade wasn't getting the thread here. How could the method of a woman's tetanus infection matter to a bomber? But, whatever it was, John just left the room to get on with the back story. Sherlock took another look at the corpse, and then turned to leave.

Lestrade decided he could not afford to miss the opportunity of being alone with Sherlock. "There's something else that we haven't thought of."

"Is there?" The brunet sounded sceptical.

The DI stared at his retreating back. "Yes. Why is he  _doing_  this, the bomber?"

That stopped Sherlock, but he didn't turn to face Greg. That told him a lot. He'd obviously touched a nerve, so Greg pressed him. "If this woman's death was suspicious, why point it out?"

Sherlock said nonchalantly, "Good Samaritan?" He started to walk.

"…who press-gangs suicide bombers?" Greg wasn't having it.  _I won't be deflected. Not this time, there are lives at stake other than yours._

Sherlock amended his comment, " _Bad_  Samaritan."

That flippancy annoyed Greg. "I'm- I'm serious, Sherlock. Listen- I'm cutting you slack here. I'm trusting you- but out there somewhere, some poor bastard's covered in Semtex and is just waiting for you to solve the puzzle. So just tell me- what are we dealing with?"

If he had hoped for an honest answer, the DI was disappointed- and disturbed. Sherlock's reply -"Something New"- was not only purposefully vague, it was delivered with an almost child-like delight. Lestrade was still trying to understand his enigmatic comment long after the consulting detective had left the room.

oOo

He took the time to check in with this team. "Any news on the hostage?"

Sally was abrupt. "Give us a chance, Guv. There've been no reports in any force's jurisdiction about an elderly person from a care home or hospital. A couple of dozen reports of dementia sufferers going walkabout, and we're looking into that, but my guess is that the bomber would want someone playing with a full deck of cards for this role, otherwise it wouldn't work. Given the timetable, I just don't think we are going to get anywhere pursuing this line of enquiry."

She drew breath. "You, on the other hand, have had the chance to ask the Freak what the hell connection he has to a talk-show host who specialises in house wife make-overs. Any joy on that front?"

 _Why do I always feel like I am on the back foot when talking to Sally about Sherlock?_  Lestrade just grunted. "He knows something but isn't talking."

"Great." Her sarcasm was clear. "You know he is our best lead. If I were you, I'd be hauling him over the coals by now, or holding his feet to the fire until he talks."

Lestrade chuckled. "Good thing that the Met protocols don't include instruments of torture then, isn't it, Sergeant?" But, he knew that she had a point. So he headed for Baker Street. Third time around he wasn't prepared to wait for Sherlock to solve this one.

When he let himself in and climbed the seventeen steps to the flat, he could already hear the tell-tale sound of Sherlock's pacing. What he wasn't prepared for when he got into the living room was the sight of the wall over the sofa. Covered in photos, bits of paper, string- this was Sherlock's equivalent of the Yard's evidence board. He looked at it carefully; there was more on this one than his own. He listened as Sherlock paced behind him, muttering, "Connection, connection, connection. There _must_  be a connection." The brunet then came up alongside Lestrade and gestured to the wall. "Carl Powers, killed twenty years ago. The Bomber  _knew_  him;  _admitted_ that he knew him. The bomber's iPhone was in stationery from the Czech Republic. First hostage from Cornwall, the second from London, the third from Yorkshire, judging by her accent. What's he doing- working his way around the world? Showing off?" Greg could hear the frustration in the younger man's voice, and his body language was telegraphing just how keyed up he was.

The sound of a phone stopped his question. He watched Sherlock take the pink phone out of his pocket and scan for the caller ID. He answered, and listened to what Lestrade could vaguely hear as the tremulous tones of an elderly lady. Less than a minute later, the brunet just looked at Lestrade, and moved the phone back into his pocket. He raised his hands into a prayer position under his chin and contemplated the wall again.

"Sherlock,  _what the hell?_ Was that the bomber again? What did he say _?"_

"Nothing; it was just to tell me that I've only got three more hours. He was taunting me about connecting up the dots."

Lestrade just looked at him.  _Yeah, well I can understand the feeling._  "So, when are you going to tell me who is behind this?"

Sherlock just ignored him and turned away from the wall, strode over to the table where his laptop was open. "DATA. I need to gather more data. There is something missing here." Lestrade turned back to the wall, torn between the need to know and the worry that pushing Sherlock right now might distract him from solving the case. And that meant an old lady's life could be forfeit.

So, he bit his tongue and turned back to the wall. A few minutes later, Mrs Hudson arrived, carrying a tray of tea, biscuits and little sandwiches.

"Sherlock, when was the last time you had anything to eat? John just phoned me to say he's worried you're not keeping to that diet of yours."

"Hmm." He cast a quick glance at the tray, then turned his eyes back to the laptop. "Can't eat biscuits or bread."

The woman just tutted. "I know that; these are for the Detective Inspector. I put in the fridge the food Angelo's delivered while you were out, and I'll heat them up now."

"I don't eat when I'm working, Mrs Hudson. You know that."

She was already in the kitchen and the Di could hear the microwave going. After the ping, she arrived with a plate and put it beside him with a fork and napkin. Then, she poured him a cup of tea. Before he could even consider take a sip, however, a phone went. For a moment, Greg tensed, thinking it was the bomber again, then he realised that the brunet had answered his own phone, not the pink one that was still in his pocket. Sherlock got up and wandered into the kitchen, talking monosyllabically.

She gave Greg a bright smile. "How do you take your tea, Detective Inspector?"

"Milk, no sugar, Mrs Hudson, and you really shouldn't have gone to the trouble."

"It's no trouble." She came to stand next to him and looked at the wall, somewhat aghast. "Oh, I do wish he'd think about what all this does to the wallpaper."

Behind him, Lestrade could hear him talking ("Great…Thank you…Thanks again.")  _Since when does Sherlock THANK anyone? What's he playing at?_

Mrs Hudson looked at the photo of Connie Prince and was sad. "It was a real shame. I liked her. She taught you how to do your colours."

Lestrade was distracted, watching Sherlock at the fireplace, just finishing his call. He didn't understand what Mrs Hudson meant. "Colours?"

"You know…what goes best with what. I should never wear cerise, apparently. Drains me."

Sherlock re-joined them, but Greg couldn't resist. "Who was that?"

Staring at the wall, Sherlock said "Home Office" in a distracted voice.

Lestrade was surprised. "Home Office?!"

"Well, Home Secretary, actually. Owes me a favour."

As if she hadn't heard their exchange, Mrs Hudson carried on. "She was a pretty girl, but she messed about with herself too much. They  _all_  do these days…People can hardly move their faces. It's silly, isn't it?" She giggled. "Did you ever see her show?"

Sherlock replied, "No" his voice loaded with distain. He showed Lestrade his laptop, playing a video of the show. Mrs Hudson identified the dead woman's brother, and commented that there was no love lost between them, if the gossip columns were anything to go by.

Sherlock nodded. "So, I gather. I've just been having a very fruitful chat with people who loved this show. Fan sites- indispensable for gossip."

When the video finished its course, Mrs Hudson made her excuses and collected the tray. Before departing, she looked at the plate of uneaten food on the table, and the cup of cold tea, untouched. She was still tutting as she descended, but Sherlock and Greg were still absorbed in the evidence wall.

The silver haired man decided he couldn't wait any longer. "You're going to have to tell me, Sherlock. This has gone far enough. Just who is this bomber and why is he doing this to you?"

Sherlock frowned but didn't look at the Detective Inspector. His eyes suddenly widened. Greg knew that look, but just as he opened his mouth to ask, he was stopped by the sound of Sherlock's phone going off again. The brunet pulled it out his pocket, checked caller ID, and then raised it to his ear. His body moved in eager anticipation.

"John." His excitement was palpable.

Lestrade couldn't hear what was being said. Sherlock just replied, "I'll remember." He listened and then said, "I'm on my way." He ended the call, looked briefly at Lestrade and then spun on his heel, grabbed his coat and tore down the stairs, leaving the DI chewing the inside of his cheek in sheer bloody frustration.

Greg fumed all the way back to New Scotland yard. He  _knew_ , after years of watching Sherlock that the man had just had an epiphany, a moment of knowledge, where clues connected, puzzle pieces slotted together and a solution was at hand.  _So, why the HELL didn't he tell me?_  In all the years of knowing the consulting detective, Greg had never felt so left out of things. It was upsetting, as if Sherlock didn't trust him. That distressed and worried Greg in equal measures. He had _such_ a bad feeling about this.

oOo

With just over one hour to go, he told Sally Donovan to go home.

"Sir?" The idea of being sent home just as the deadline approached was just…impossible. "I can't stop now, sir. We might still find the hostage." Lestrade just shook his head. "You've done your best. Every care home, every hospital, every social worker's been alerted and no one has reported an elderly blind woman missing. Whatever happens now, it's up to Holmes and Watson."

"Well, sir, time to realise that the Freak isn't infallible. With respect, Guv…" Of course, he knew she meant it  _without_  respect. She'd never respected what the man could do. He just put his hand over his weary eyes for a moment, and said, "Go home, Sergeant. There's nothing more  _you_  can do."

He could feel the heat of her indignation as she grabbed her handbag and jacket off the back of her chair and slammed the door on her way out.

The next voice he heard with John Watson's, followed by Sherlock's, as he opened his eyes.

"Raoul de Santos is your killer- Kenny Prince's houseboy. Second autopsy shows it wasn't tentanus that poisoned Connie Prince- it was botulinum toxin." He dropped a folder on Sally's desk in front of Lestrade. As he reached for it, the brunet leaned in closer to him. "We've been here before. Carl Powers? Tut-tut. Our bomber's _repeated_  himself."

Lestrade swept up the file and started to head for his office, with Sherlock in tow. "So, how'd he do it?"

When Sherlock replied "Botox injection", John's head snapped around in surprise. Lestrdea stopped mid-stride. "Botox?!"

Sherlock set off on one his little lectures: "Botox is a diluted form of botulinum. Among other things, Raoul de Santos was employed to give Connie her regular facial injections. My contact at the Home Office gave me the complete records of Raoul's internet purchases…He's been bulk ordering Botox for months. Bided his time, then upped the strength to a fatal dose."

Behind Sherlock's back, Lestrade could see John Watson's expression turn from surprise to anger.

"You're sure about this?" Lestrade wouldn't normally call into question one of Sherlock's solutions, but John's reaction bothered him.

Oblivious to the doctor behind him, Sherlock just said "I'm sure."

Greg replied, "Alright- my office." He'd get started on the arrest warrant for de Santos.

He was aware that John had stopped Sherlock from following, and listened to their exchange as he walked on.

"Hey, Sherlock, how long?"

"What?"

"How long have you known?"

Lestrade could hear the smirk without even having to see him. "Well, this one was quite simple, actually, and like I said, the bomber repeated himself. That was a mistake."

John's anger was evident. "No, but Sherl…the  _hostage_ …the old woman. She's been there all this time."

"I knew I could save her. I also knew that the bomber had given us twelve hours. I solved the case quickly, that gave me time to get on with other things. Don't you _see_? We're one up on him!"

The doctor's disapproval followed Sherlock into the DI's office and stayed there like a dark cloud. Lestrade had to agree. If Sherlock had solved it earlier, but left an old blind lady to suffer for hours more as a hostage, then that was just beyond belief. He knew that empathy was not something the man understood, but he had not seen him be purposefully cruel before.  _What the hell is going on Sherlock? This is just making you into something I don't recognise._

In a matter of moments, Lestrade had herded Sherlock into his chair, and standing on one side of him with John on the other, said "Let's get an old woman out of danger, shall we?" It was said through gritted teeth.

Sherlock opened Greg's laptop to find his own blog site, and he typed into the comment message box:  **Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, Botox.**

Almost instantly the pink phone on the desk rang.

Sherlock answered. "Hello?"

Greg couldn't hear what the old woman was saying.

Sherlock said firmly, "Tell us where you are. Address."

The woman must be saying something, because Sherlock suddenly cut in, "No, no, no, co- don't tell me anything about him.  _Nothing!"_

Then the tiniest of pauses, followed by Sherlock saying "Hello?"

Greg took one look at Sherlock's reflection in the glass window of his office, saw the look on his face, and blurted out, "Sherlock?" in a horrified tone. Greg straightened up and sighed, knowing without being told that the hostage must have been killed. John picked up on his physical reaction, but didn’t comprehend its meaning and followed with a "What's happened?"

Sherlock lowered the phone from his ear slowly and wouldn't look at either man as he bit his lip. John could see the distress in the brunet's posture. The doctor didn't touch him, but braced his hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, as if holding back from giving comfort.

"She said he had a soft voice…"

oOo

It took another seventy minutes before they finally found out where the old woman had been. Within seconds of realising what must have happened, Greg's training kicked in, and he was on the phone to the night duty officer: all forces and fire services in the country to be alerted about an explosion. No matter what it might appear to be, they were to investigate it as a potential bombing, and to call the Yard.

For the next hour, Sherlock stayed silent, seated at Lestrade's desk. Greg could see John trying to talk to him, but the consulting detective gave no reply- in fact, it was as if he wasn't hearing. After a quarter of an hour, John gave up and came out to find a coffee from the machine down the corridor. While on hold to the fire services national control room, Greg gave him a questioning look, but John just shook his head and muttered something about "mind palace".

When the news came through that a block of flats had been severely damaged in a gas explosion in Rotherham, South Yorkshire, Sherlock shook off his lethargy long enough to stand with John and Lestrade as the DI turned on the flat screen TV on the far wall of the team room. The 24/7 news coverage on the BBC had the first on-scene photos. The three men watched in silence as the presenter reported that the suspected gas leak in the 1960s bloc had claimed the lives of at least ten victims, but the fire services were still on the scene and the casualty figures could mount. In the background, ambulances were leaving with sirens and lights flashing.

John looked at Sherlock, watching the news report without a trace of expression on his face. He looked worried as he watched his friend gather his coat and scarf from where he had thrown them off on his way into Lestrade's office.

"Sherlock." There was a tough line of determination in Lestrade's voice, but no condemnation. He then said quietly, "It wouldn't have mattered if you'd made the call any earlier. She was likely to have said that whenever you rang. This is the bomber's doing, not yours."

Sherlock did not turn around. "I know." The tone of voice was flat and emotionless.

Greg crossed his arms and looked at the brunet's back. "So, there's no time for the usual sulk about not getting it right. I need you firing on all cylinders in the morning, because I'm guessing that this isn't over yet."

There was no reply. John sighed and made to follow him. Lestrade tried one more time. "John- keep me informed. Maybe if we can work closer together, this won't happen again." The doctor nodded grimly and then ran to catch up with Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

"It's me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge?"

Greg had been dreading this call. Expecting it, but dreading it, nonetheless. The DI had barely managed to get five hours of sleep, what with liaising with the Rotherham police, fire service and the gas company. A decision had been taken by the CTC in the Met to advise all three to describe it as a tragic accident caused by a faulty gas line. The case was related to an on-going investigation, and an early disclosure could complicate their work. For once, Lestrade was glad that they were back, interested in the case again.

His CTC contact, Commander Troughton, made it plain. "Someone just playing with semtex doesn't do it for us, but deaths cause by a bomb need to be investigated. So, we're back on the case. So tell all, Lestrade." That had taken some time. And the more he said about it, filling in the details of the hostages, and the deductions that led to solving the puzzles, the more incredulous the CTC officer became.

"Just  _who_  the hell is this Sherlock Holmes? We're going to need to question him- anyone attracting this level of animosity- a personal bombing campaign?! Well, he has got to be a person of interest to our branch."

Lestrade warned him. "Before you even think of doing something like that, check first with SO6; his brother would be mightily offended. Questioning a Holmes is not a good idea, not if you anticipate having a long career."

There was silence on the other end. " _That_  Holmes?"

"Yeah."

"Oh. Bloody hell, Lestrade, I wouldn't want to be you at the moment."

"Thanks for that little vote of confidence, Troughton. I really needed that." After that, it was as if the guy couldn't get off the phone fast enough.

Greg lay awake for the half of the night that was left by the time he got home. He tried to sleep. Cuddled up to Louise and started to drift, only to wake himself up with the thought of Sherlock being caught up in something that was simply too big for him to get his head around.  _And if it's too big for him to figure out, then how the hell am I going to stop him from getting hurt?_

Actually, there was something that kept rattling around in his mind like a marble in a tin can, so he got up and went into the kitchen to fix himself a camomile tea. No caffeine- he'd had so much over the past five days that his hands seemed to have a permanent tremor. As he fished out the teabag and dropped it into the sink, it came to him.

 _Yeah- just where the hell is Mycroft in all this?!_ Usually when Sherlock got into trouble, his brother was all over him. But, apart from an appearance at the flat – well, he assumed it was Mycroft whose car was there when he returned Sherlock to Baker Street the morning after the bombing- the elder Holmes had been conspicuous by his absence. He wondered if he should call.  _Not at three am, you dolt._  He didn't want to be responsible for giving the guy a heart attack, or scaring him witless that something had happened to Sherlock. Not yet, anyway.

That was the other thing that was bugging Greg, really worrying him. Sherlock had made enemies over the years; he was too good at his job not to do so. But, if someone wanted him dead, they'd had their chance. The first bomb could have been a 'proper' sized semtex package- that and the gas would have levelled 221. So, outright murder didn't seem to be on the agenda. Whoever the mystery bomber was, he was playing with Sherlock, pulling strings and watching the man jump to solve the puzzles. It was personal, it was malicious and the person doing it didn't give a damn if innocent people were killed in the process. That was a very dangerous enemy- one who didn't want to just kill Sherlock, no- these puzzles meant that something else was involved. And he didn't like where it was taking Sherlock.  _Is he being set up for some horrible crime?_ He just couldn't shake the ...oddness, the peculiar way Sherlock was just  _enjoying_  this. It scared him.

He rubbed his eyes, and wished he didn't feel like shit. The brain was just too tired and too wired at one and the same time.

Eight hours later, when Sherlock did his usual greeting, "It's me", Greg was ready to hear the worst. "OK, what's happened? Has he been on the phone to you? What kind of hostage is it now?"

"Just a photo- a view of a river. The Thames, South Bank- somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo. I suggest you take a look. When you find something, text." Then the call ended.

Lestrade sighed, but came out into the team room. Sally Donovan gave him a filthy look as he headed for her desk. "So, I see Mr Infallible cost twelve lives last night. Time to bring him in, sir?"

"Shut it, Donovan. We have work to do; get a team, bring some Forensics along- we're doing some beach combing."

oOo

It was freezing cold on the exposed shore below the Thames southern embankment. A biting wind was coming in straight up the river from somewhere east of the Urals. When Sherlock and John showed up, the police had been on the scene for nearly an hour, and Greg's hands were like two blocks of ice. He was standing next to a body, which had been lifted onto a plastic sheet.

"D'you reckon this is connected, then? The bomber?"

Sherlock had eyes only for the body, but he answered the DI. " _Must_  be. Odd, though…." He held up the pink phone with the photo. "…he hasn't been in touch."

"But we must assume that some poor bugger's primed to explode, yeah?"

This got a terse "Yes" from the brunet, who stepped back and took a long look.

"Any ideas?" Greg knew better than to badger Sherlock with lots of questions when he was in full observation mode, but he couldn't help but think of another hostage. _One thing is for sure, this time I won't let him solve this one without me._

Sherlock answered Greg's question. "Seven…so far."

Greg couldn't keep his irritation at bay- " _Seven_?!"

Then Sherlock was in motion. He swooped down over the body, squatting to get close to the man's face with his magnifier. He then worked down the body, pulling up a trouser leg, then taking off one of the socks and examining the soles of his feet. When he stood up and closed the magnifier, he looked up to find John and then nodded his head towards the body, in a mute order to examine it. John waited for permission from Lestrade, who just waved him forward.

The doctor's assessment came rapidly thereafter. "He's been dead about twenty four hours- maybe a little longer." He looked up at Lestrade. "Did he drown?"

The Di shook his head. "Apparently not, not enough Thames in his lungs. Asphyxiated."

Sherlock was standing off a bit, as if not even listening to John. He was busy looking at something on his phone, making frequent finger swipes, as if trying to find data.

John agreed with the initial Forensic assessment of cause of death. Then both he and Lestrade shot a glance at Sherlock, who had just muttered, "fingertips."

John looked confused but continued, "In his late thirties, I'd say. Not in the best condition."

Sherlock concurred. "He's been in the river a long while. The water's destroyed most of the data."

He then gave a private, almost sly smile. "But, I'll tell you one thing: that lost Vermeer paintings a fake."

Lestrade tried, he really did. But the comment was such a  _non sequitur_  that he just felt his exasperated "what?!" slip out.

Sherlock didn't even bat an eyelid. "We need to identify the corpse, find out about his friends and associates…."

The DI felt the accumulated weight of too many sleepless nights catch up with him and just stutter his brain into neutral. "Wait-wait-wait-wait. What painting? What are you- what are you on about?"

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. "It's all over the place. Haven't you seen the posters? Dutch Old Master, supposed to have been destroyed centuries ago. Now it's turned up; worth thirty million pounds."

Greg felt like smacking the guy. "OK, so what has  _that_  got to do with the stiff?"

"Everything." Sherlock thought something was amusing, which just wound up Greg even more. Purposefully obtuse, the brunet continued, "Have you heard of the Golem?"

Once again, Lestrade was reduced to parroting the word back at Sherlock. "Golem?"

John came to Greg's rescue. "It's a horror story, isn't it? What are you saying?" At least Greg didn't feel like he was the only one who was having difficulty following Sherlock's strange train of thought.

"Jewish folk story, a gigantic man made of clay. It's also the name of an assassin- real name Oskar Dzundza- one of the deadliest assassins in the world. That is his trademark style. " He pointed down at the body, as if that explained everything.

Greg couldn't believe his ears. "So this is a  _hit_?" He was now thoroughly confused, annoyed and close to losing it with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes glittered in the early morning light. "Definitely. The Golem squeezes the life out of his victims with his bare hands."

"But what does this have to do with the painting? I don't see…"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to sound exasperated. "You see- you just don't observe."

Before Greg could explode, John stepped in. "All right, all right, girls, calm down. Sherlock? Do you want to take us through it?" Not for the first time, Greg heaved a sigh of relief. John Watson's willingness to tame the younger man's anti-social traits had led to fewer such confrontations recently.  _Maybe this lapse into old habits is a sign of how rattled Sherlock really is by all this._  That thought took the heat out of Lestrade's irritation.

Sherlock gathered a breath and set off. "What do we know about this corpse? The killer's not left us with much- just the shirt and the trousers. They're pretty formal- maybe he was going out for the night? But the trousers are heavy-duty, polyester, nasty, same as the shirt- cheap. They're both too big for him, so some kind of standard issue uniform- dressed for work then. What kind of work? There's a hook on his belt for a walkie-talkie.

"Tube Driver?" Lestrade was clutching at straws, but he was trying to follow along. Sherlock just shot him a look that said "idiot" without having to vocalise it. Then John piped up, "Security guard?"

Sherlock nodded, "More likely. That's be borne out by his backside."

Now Greg couldn't resist. "Backside?!"

"Flabby. You'd think that he'd led a sedentary life, yet the soles of his feet and the nascent varicose veins in his legs show otherwise. So, a lot of walking  _and_  a lot of sitting around. Security Guard's looking good. And the watch helps, too. The alarm shows he did regular night shifts."

"Why regular? Maybe he just set his alarm like that the night before he died." Lestrade tried to slow down the deductive flow, but it was like stopping the Thames' tide coming in.

"No-no-no, the buttons are stiff, hardly touched. He set his alarm like that a long time ago. His routine never varied. But there's something else. The killer must have been interrupted, otherwise he would have stripped the corpse completely. There was some kind of badge or insignia on the shirt front that he tore off. Suggesting the dead man worked somewhere recognisable, some kind of institution." He fished something out of his pocket. "Found this in his pocket, sodden by the river but still recognisably…"

John did the honours, "tickets?"

Sherlock corrected him- "ticket  _stubs_." Then he was off again. "He worked in a museum or gallery. Did a quick check- the Hickman Gallery has reported one of its attendants missing. Alex Woodbridge. Tonight they unveil the re-discovered masterpiece. Now why would anyone want to pay the Golem to suffocate a perfectly ordinary gallery attendant? Inference- the dead man knew something about it, something that would stop the owner getting paid thirty million pounds. The picture's a fake."

John looked as shell-shocked as Greg felt. He just said in an admiring tone, "Fantastic."

Sherlcok shrugged, his face still set in a frown. "Meretricious." John's crossword definitions came in handy; he sensed that Sherlock was mocking him a bit by admitting that it was a vulgar display of talent, not particularly useful.

"And a Happy New Year!" Lestrade looked startled by the whole discussion, as he had no idea what the hell the two men were saying to one another. John looked back at the body. "Poor sod," as if to remind both the official detective and the consulting one to stop thinking of the body lying on the mud as just a means to an end.

That spurred Lestrade into action. "I'd better get my feelers out for this Golem character."

Sherlock's reply came almost instantaneously, "pointless, you'll never find him. But I know a man who can."

"Who?" The DI hoped this would be a cue to get Mycroft involved and playing a useful role. But his hopes were dashed when Sherlock's answer came back, "me." The brunet grinned and walked away. John sighed, and his eyes showed just how weary he was becoming of this, but he followed in the man's wake. Greg watched them disappear.  _Great, not content with pissing off a bomber, he now decides to go after an assassin._ If he wasn't so cold, he'd be livid with anger.

oOo

For the next nine hours, Greg's text messages became increasingly frantic. His initial "stay in touch" approach didn't even rate a reply. Nor did his messages to John get answered, apart from one about mid-afternoon.

**2.45pm Just hang in there; we're on it, putting pieces together. JW**

**2.47pm Is there a hostage involved? GL**

**2.49pm Not to my knowledge-nor his, if that's any help JW**

Then at a quarter past five, a call came into the Yard, reporting the death of Professor Cairns, a University of London academic, killed at the London Planetarium. Shots had been fired, according to one of the tourist attraction staff. Greg sent Sally Donovan to investigate, in part, to get her out of the office. Her glowering face was getting on his nerves.

Twenty minutes later, she called in. "Guv, you aren't going to believe this. The Professor was killed by being asphyxiated. The ME was the same who did your body on the Thames foreshore. He says it's the same MO."

Greg just groaned.

"And, you'll never guess." Her sarcasm was dripping. "Two men answering the description of a tall, dark-haired bloke in a long coat, and a short blond guy in a black jacket, were on site when shots were fired. They vanished, chasing a really tall guy that the attendant didn't see very well."

The DI closed his eyes, and said nothing.

"Guv, really. You don't have a choice. Shall I put an alert out to bring them in?"

"Wait, Donovan. Just wait." He hoped to God that Sherlock knew what he was doing.

By seven o'clock, Lestrade was beginning to lose hope. He contacted the head of the Hickman Gallery and told her that he was going to put a plain-clothes officer into the gala reception starting at 7.30. VIPS and some of London's best known art critics had been invited to the private opening; he was worried that there might be some trouble, given the murder of one of the gallery attendants.

She was reluctant at first, but agreed in the end. "I want everything to go well tonight, so please, no heavy-handed presence. So long as your man is discrete, it's OK." Her heavily accented East European voice betrayed little. But, he couldn't blame her if she was anxious. Discovering a new Vermeer was a once in a century find; she was bound to have opening night nerves.

Lestrade kept in touch with the officer- but his man said that apart from some bitchiness from the art critics whose envy could not be contained, the 90 minute reception had passed without a hitch. The DI sent the 20th text of the day to Sherlock.

9.07pm Reception over, no issues. Any news? GL

There was no reply. At that stage, exhaustion took over and he just went to bed.

oOo

**8.09am Meet us at the gallery. SH**

When Lestrade arrived and was escorted in, the Hickstead Gallery owner, Miss Wenceslas, was pacing, her high heeled shoes tapping a rhythm of anger on the stone floor. Sherlock was examining the painting; John was watching Sherlock.

As soon as she saw Lestrade, she exploded. "You're the policeman I spoke to yesterday, yes?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, mam." He tried to give her a reassuring smile.

"This …man has broken into this gallery twice- once yesterday and now this morning. I told him I would have you arrest him, but he says he's working for you." Her thick Eastern European accent did not hide her distain.

Sherlock was ignoring her, John and Lestrade in equal measure. His eyes kept moving from his phone to the small canvas hung in splendid isolation on the white wall. Greg sighed.

"It's a fake. It  _has_  to be." To Greg's ears, used to Sherlock, that sounded  _immensely_  frustrated.

Miss Wenceslas was outraged. "That painting has been subjected to every test known to science."

The tall brunet did not turn around, just snarled, "It's a very  _good_  fake, then." The he spun wound and fixed her with one of his intense glares.

"You  _know_  about this, don't you? This is  _you_ , isn't it?"

She looked back at Lestrade, her exasperation clear. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing you and your friends out?"

A phone rang. Sherlock snatched the pink mobile out of his pocket, almost in triumph. He switched it onto speaker, and blurted out "The painting is a fake."

There was no reply, just the sound of a breathy pant. Sherlock continued, "It's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." There was no response from the phone.

Sherlock's impatience could not be contained any longer. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

The only sound from the phone was the sound of someone breathing.

The brunet took a breath in, and closed his eyes for a moment as if to calm himself. "Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?"

There was a brief gap, then Greg heard the voice of a very young boy over the phone's speaker, "Ten..."

Sherlock whirled back to the painting and his eyes start flicking over it almost frantic.

Greg said in a shocked tone, "It's a kid. Oh, God…it's a  _kid_!"

John looked confused, and asked "What did he say?"

Sherlock answered without turning, "ten".

The boy's voice was heard over the speaker. "Nine..."

"It's a countdown. He's giving me time."

Greg's eyes widened in horror. "Jesus!"

Sherlock ignored him, "The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How?  _How?"_

"Eight…"

The brunet turned and skewered the gallery owner. "This kid will die.  _TELL_  me why the painting is a fake.  _Tell me!"_

"Seven…"

Then Sherlock held his hand up to stop the woman from saying anything. "No, shut up. Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out." He turned back to the painting.

John could no longer stand the tension; he walked away a few paces and turned away from the sight of Sherlock frantically scanning the canvass. The brunet had to stoop to get on the same level as the painting, and he was muttering, "must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

"Six…" The boy's voice sounded scared, as if he knew that something serious was happening. Greg could hardly stand the thought that this  _game_  of Sherlock and the bomber was going to result in the death of such a young innocent. That said, he knew that shouting at Sherlock now or remonstrating with him would only interfere with his deductions during the last few seconds that the boy had. Instead, Lestrade looked at John as if willing him to do something, to work his magic with Sherlock. But the doctor could only push; they all heard him as he turned back and said "come  _on_!"

Sherlock was reduced to putting his rising frustration into questions. "Woodbridge knew, but  _how?"_

"Five…"

Lestrade realised in a panic what they all heard. "It's speeding up!"

John growled an almost despairing, " _Sherlock!_ "

The detective was bent over looking at the canvass up close. Really looking at it. Lestrade saw that the man had actually stopped breathing.  _No distractions; he's blocking everything out._

Then the breathy, " _OH!"_

"Four…"

He stood up, and turned away with from the painting with a smile on his face. "In the planetarium! You heard it, too. Oh, that is  _brilliant_! That is  _gorgeous_!" He walked away from the canvass and the others. As he passed John, he thrust the pink phone into the doctor's hand, and pulled his own phone out of his pocket, punching keys with almost giddy enthusiasm.

"Three…"

John's calm finally broke, and he demanded of Sherlock, "What's brilliant?  _What_  is?"

The brunet turned and walked back to the others, his face split with a grin, laughing in delight. "This is beautiful. I  _love_  this!"

Lestrade added his outrage to John's, " _SHERLOCK!_ "

"Two…"

The man grabbed the phone from John's hand and yelled, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

There was a short pause. Greg felt like the moment dragged out impossibly, waiting for that awful word- one- that would spell the end of an innocent life. He forgot how to breath.

"Please, is somebody there?" The little boy's voice sounded plaintive.

Sherlock gave out a contented sigh, just as the others were willing to breathe again.

"Somebody help me!"

Sherlock turned and handed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up."

He gave a long look to John, as if daring him to argue. Then he turned back to the canvass. "The Van Buren supernova, so-called,…" he held his phone up so that Miss Wenceslas could see it. "…exploding star, only appeared in the night sky in eighteen fifty-eight." He gave her a triumphant stare, and then walked away.

John looked closer at the canvass. "So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" He grinned over his shoulder at the gallery owner, before returning to look at the painting again. Then his own phone chirruped- incoming text.

"Oh" John looked at it, sighed and "Oh, Sherlock…" He switched off the phone and followed his flatmate out of the room.

The Detective Inspector had two phones to his ears- the pink one into which he was saying "It's all right, son, we'll have someone there in just a couple of minutes. You're OK. Just stay where you are." As soon as he finished that statement, he spoke into the other phone, "Got that, Donovan? Right, send the bomb squad there and a team from the Arts and Antiques command to collect this fake and the gallery owner, Miss Wenceslas."

The woman was still staring at the painting in a state of shock.

oOo

Lestrade was beginning to feel like one of those circus performers who came on after the elephants had been in the main ring; he seemed to be forever clearing up the mess left behind by Sherlock's puzzles.  _At least this time, there are no bodies._  And he gave thanks that the man's nerve had not broken at the last minute; he'd never seen his observational powers put under such strain before. In most of their previous cases, the work was done over a dead body. Even when there were risks of another crime, or an abduction that could end badly, they rarely faced such a deadline. To be told to come up with a solution in ten seconds- well, the bomber was a fiend, there was no other word for it.

By the time the team put the gallery owner into an interrogation room, Sally had called in to say that the boy had been rescued, and was safely re-united with his parents. He'd been walking home from a shop when a taxi stopped beside him and he'd been kidnapped. The men wore masks, "like on the TV" and the boy had been terribly excited when they said it was all a game, and that he'd win a big prize, if he did what they said. He had thought it was all being filmed for some video game- and that none of it was real.  _Lucky him, it's just we adults who will have nightmares as a result of this latest 'game'._

Greg had insisted that Sherlock come to the Yard for the interview. He wasn't sure he knew enough about the painting to make sense of what Sherlock said, and the A&A Officer who came to take her into custody just whispered, "I hope you know what you're doing, sir- this is the most important art discovery of the century, and we're going to look pretty stupid in the press, if we get it wrong."

So, he found himself conducting the interview.  _Damn Mycroft Holmes for insisting that all contact with Sherlock be handled through me._  Greg would have liked nothing better to be at home now, trying to get his brain to slow down. The adrenaline still kicking around in his blood was now giving him a filthy headache, and he felt wired, tense and vaguely nauseous, the last because he vaguely remembered that he hadn't had anything to eat all day.

"You know, it's interesting. Bohemian stationery, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and  _you_ , Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?" In contrast to how Greg was feeling, the consulting detective seemed as cool as a cucumber, totally relaxed.

When the woman didn't answer, Sherlock continued, "What are we looking at, Inspector?"

Greg decided to throw everything and the kitchen sink at her. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats…"

That made the gallery owner look up in panic. "I didn't know anything about  _that_! All those things,  _Please_  believe me!"

Greg could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye at the same time as the DI watched the suspect; a tiny nod from the consulting detective suggested that the woman was telling the truth about that part, at least.

She carried on: "I just wanted my share- the thirty million." She looked at Sherlock, and then looked down, as if the sight of the man was just too painful to bear. "I found a little man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

Sherlock sniffed in derision, clearly not content to be classed as 'anyone'.

She gave him a filthy look; "Well,  _nearly_  everyone….I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea- a spark which he blew into a flame."

This made Sherlock sharply demand, " _Who_?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Greg just laughed.

"It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people… _his_  people."

This made Sherlock sit up and concentrate.

"Well, there never was any real contact. Just messages…whispers."

Sherlock leaned over, closer to her, with an intensity designed to intimidate. She looked at Lestrade with what he realised was fear, then drew a breath and nodded, turning her head slowly toward Sherlock.

"Moriarty."

The name meant nothing to Lestrade. But, as he watched Sherlock sink back into his chair, gaze into the distance and lift his hands into a prayer position in front of his mouth, Greg realised that the name did mean something to the brunet. Even worse, what chilled Lestrade's heart was the grin that he saw emerging on Sherlock's face.


	6. Chapter 6

When Lestrade finished for the night, he was well and truly knackered. Exhausted, shattered, brain dead- not to put too fine a point on it, he could think of nothing he wanted more than bed. He'd spent the whole day clearing up the mess of Sherlock's latest bomber puzzle. After contacting Interpol to issue the European Arrest Warrant for Oskar Dzundza, otherwise known as the Golem, he'd then spent two hours with the Art & Antiques team who went on to formally charge Miss Wenceslas, the owner of the Hickman Gallery for fraud and criminal conspiracy involving a fake Vermeer painting. Based on her subsequent confession, he'd also assisted in the issuance of an Interpol warrant for a little known artist living in Buenos Aries, Argentina, for art forgery.

Then there was the follow up work for the murders of Anthony Woodbridge and Professor Cairns; that took a couple of hours. Neither case could move forward until Dzundza was apprehended, but their relatives needed to know what progress had been made. Sergeant Donovan returned from rescuing the hostage, and debriefed him on that. Fortunately, Timothy Gordon was fine. The boy's ordeal had not felt like it to him. On the contrary, he'd thought it terribly exciting to be involved in the filming of a new video game, and he'd hoped he played his part correctly. The men had said he needed to count down slowly and then sound frightened.

He'd had enough of this London taxi being used to kidnap hostages; it had been implicated now in at least two incidents. So that involved briefing a team to have a go at the Hackney Carriage Licensing office, kick starting the investigation into who might have been abusing a black cab in London.  Long ago and far away, the London Carriage Office had actually been part of the Met Police, but like a lot of things, had transferred to London Transport. Talk about needles in haystacks- there were over 22,000 licensed drivers working 17,000 cabs- and there was also the possibility that the company manufacturing the iconic cab had sold some to private owners, who also needed to be checked out. For more than a moment, Greg wondered if Sherlock ever realised how much police work was needed to sweep up behind him in one of his investigations. "Solving the puzzle" was all the Consulting Detective cared about, but Lestrade's team had to gather the actual evidence that would stand up in court, never mind dealing with the victims and their families left behind in Sherlock's wake. Working with the genius certainly improved the clear up rate and successful prosecutions, but it also meant that the team behind the scenes was kept constantly at work. More than one of the detective constables on rotations with the MIT who had been brought into work on his team declined to join, because the pace was just too demanding. 

Lestrade was also having to liaise with forces all over the country- literally, from Cornwall to South Yorkshire. He had no idea whether the old blind woman, Dorothy Elton, had been abducted using a taxi. She certainly wasn't registered as living in the block of flats that had blown up; she'd been plucked from her bungalow on the other side of Rotherham. And given her death, he couldn't interview her to see if the cab and the three masked men were involved. If the same license plate of any Manganese Bronze black cab privately owned showed up on any Rotherham traffic footage, he wanted to know about it. 

Then there was the afternoon press conference called by the Art & Antiques Unit, fronted by the Assistant Commissioner for SC&O, Anthony Hemming. He wanted Lestrade there as "the DI who tracked down the murdered security guard that led to the discovery of the most important art crime of the past decade." He'd raided his desk for a fresh shirt; Greg kept a supply in the bottom drawer for those times when he wouldn't get home. No wonder Louise had given up on ironing his shirts. "Get a laundry service, Greg- and charge the office; it's a legitimate expense," she said, washing her hands of the task. He didn't altogether blame her. Fortunately, at this press conference he didn't have much of a speaking role; others were content to take the limelight. By agreement with the Assistant Commissioner, he'd argued against making Sherlock Holmes' role public. "We don't want to give this bomber the oxygen of publicity, so let's keep him out of it, please."

This case was like managing a three-ringed circus. _No, make that a five ringed circus._ Throughout the day, Lestrade kept waiting for a phone call from Sherlock to say that another one had started. Failing that, he expected a call from Mycroft.  _Damn it- he'd been expecting that call for days. Where is the man when you actually need him?_

Maybe to get a step ahead, he started a team digging on the name "Moriarty". It was a fairly common Irish name, but he wanted every possible criminal connection identified.  _You take on Sherlock, you take on me, Mr Moriarty, whoever you are._

By five o'clock, he'd had enough of waiting. More than enough. He texted Sherlock

**5.02pm Any new activity? If not, I'm going home to bed. I'm knackered.**

**5\. 05pm Nothng. Go. SH**

_Well, that's succinct._  He was too tired to care.

When Louise got home after work at 6.45pm, she found the curtains drawn, the lights off and a sleeping Greg in his bed. After contemplating the scene in the bedroom, she changed her clothes and called a friend: "Fancy going for a meal and a film?"

By the time she got back, and crawled into bed herself, it was just past midnight. Greg was deep asleep, and at first she found his snores annoying. Then it seemed as if she'd just managed to drift off when the sound of a phone ringing woke her up. Flipping on the light, she saw that it was Greg's phone, on his bedside table, but, of course, as ever, he was sleeping straight through it. She shoved his shoulder with a little more animosity than usual, and he suddenly thrashed awake.

"What, what's …are you a'right?"

"It's your bloody phone; you answer it- and take it out into the living room, will you?"

He staggered up, threw on his dressing gown and picked up the phone. By the time he was out of the bedroom door, she'd switched off the light.

"Yeah? What's …happened"

Sherlock's voice sounded a little higher pitched, and a bit less fluent than usual. Or was that Greg's sleep-addled brain? He couldn't be sure.

"The fifth and final pip" He must have heard Greg's intake of breath. " Relax... solved it. Freed the hostage myself. John…. it was John, by the way."

 _Oh shit!_  Whatever Greg had been expecting, this was not it. That meant the bomber was not only familiar with Sherlock, but knew that, of all the people to wrap in semtex, John was the one that would distress the consulting detective the most.

"Why the hell didn't you call me when all this started? What was the puzzle?"

"Irrelevant. And classified. The only reason why I'm calling is that you need to organise a clean-up. We're just outside the swimming pool in Camberwell, you know- the Victorian one that's about to be restored. Moriarty and the snipers are long gone. On the side of the pool is the bomber's jacket, and tell the bomb squad to treat the anorak carefully; I don't think that Moriarty would detonate it just for effect at this stage, but it would be wise to take proper precautions." 

Greg could hear the adrenaline push working in the speed of that delivery. "Sherlock, slow down. Is John all right? Are  _you_  alright? And just who the hell is this Moriarty and why is he doing this to you?"

There was no reply. He could just hear the man's slightly ragged breathing on the other end of the phone, and the usual street noises of a Saturday night in London. Then the sound of someone walking up to Sherlock, then the call was ended.

 _Shit, shit, shit…._ Greg's brain had gone from sleep-fuddled zero to full blooded panic over the course of the call.  _Classified?_  What the hell did that mean?

Enough. He didn't care if it was nearly one in the morning, Mycroft Holmes needed to be informed. He scrolled through his phone's contact list, found the one he was looking for and hit the call button.

To his credit, Mycroft Holmes was obviously a light sleeper. He picked up on the second ring.

"Detective Inspector, what's happened?" It was a question mildly put, but even Greg could read the tinge of stress lying under the polite tone.

"Your brother…" and here Greg ground to a halt. How to sum up the last week's mayhem? "Has been playing games with a bomber. And you seem to be sitting on the side-lines watching it all play out. Care to tell me why?"

"Not until you explain the timing of  _this_ call, Detective Inspector, and why do you want to know  _now_."

"I'll assume then that you haven't heard about Sherlock ending up at a pool in South London, with John Watson strapped into a jacket of semtex?"

There was the briefest moment of silence, then "No, can't say that I have." It was calmly stated. Greg realised that Mycroft would know that if Sherlock had been injured, the call would have started differently. Not for the first time in his history of knowing the Holmes brothers, Greg was glad that his contact was more with Sherlock. As limited as the man was at expressing emotion, Sherlock at least had reasons to be reticent. Mycroft just kept his so tightly leashed that it was positively scary at times.

Greg decided to plough on. "Well, he just called me in to do the clean-up routine. Says the game is over; I get the feeling this was a score draw. And my guess is that when John ended up as the hostage, Sherlock wasn't quite so happy to play along." Greg realised that the six hours of sleep he'd managed since getting home was probably all he was going to get tonight. "Frankly, I'm sick of coming along behind him with a broom, so I really, really do hope that this is over. I can't keep my eye on him tonight. I suggest that you do that right now, because in my book, whatever happened at the pool sounds like it wiped the grin off of Sherlock's face."

"Thank you for that advice. Leave it with me."

"Keep me informed, will you? Sherlock's told me bugger all about what's  _really_  going on here. And- not to put to fine a point on it- I'm bloody tired of being taken for granted. Got that, Mycroft?"

"Loud and clear, Lestrade." The call ended, leaving Greg to glower at his phone. He went back into the bedroom and dug out some clothes in the dark.

A long suffering sigh erupted from the bed. "I suppose you're off again?"

"Yeah, sorry to wake you."

There was no reply. As Lestrade prepared for another night's work in service to the Holmes brothers, he wondered where it was all going to end.

 


End file.
